The power of words

You don't have to work with words for a living to know that power is distributed unevenly to words and phrases. So it was last week when I called my doctor's office to describe my symptoms - fever, chills, um, colorful coughing, and Darth Vaderesque breathing. The nurse said that I should see the doctor now because "it could be pneumonia." I received a prescription for a strong antibiotic and an appointment for a chest x-ray. Most of us, when sick, want to know that we have something real and, even better, measurable, lest we be thought of as slackers.

A bunch of years ago, 25 perhaps, I stopped for an ice cream home on my way back from a mid-day appointment. When I got out of the car, I noticed smoke and flames coming out from under the hood. I walked in to the Baskin & Robbins and asked the young woman behind the counter if she could call the fire department. I also ordered my ice cream cone and enjoyed it while I watched the fire fighters spray foam into the engine compartment.

When my doctor told me on Friday that the mole I'd had removed the previous week was "malignant melanoma," I sat up a bit straighter, but didn't flinch. Tomorrow morning, the surgeon will remove an area around the original incision, "clearing the margins," they call it. I'll take the day off and then see what kinds of follow-up appointments and treatments are called for.

As you'd expect, I do spend time thinking about what this means. Whatever it is, I'm grateful - grateful for what I have and grateful for what this will teach me.

Medical advances have given us many more options when treating difficult conditions. Nevertheless, if someone offers botox injections as a treatment for depression, you might want to think it through.

Or, if you have a great need to cut yourself and your nurse says, "Just don't get anything on the carpet," it would be fair to start a discussion about who's really crazy here.

Sandra ordered curried chicken and I requested spicy string beans with beef when we went to a local Chinese restaurant the other night. A short while later, the waiter delivered our dinners and quickly disappeared. While we listened to such elevator-favorite tunes such as Guantanamera, done in an ersatz Chinese style, we enjoyed our meals, even though what Sandra received wasn't what she ordered. Some time later, the waiter reappeared and asked us if everything was all right.

"This is good," Sandra said, pointing to the sweet, orange-flavored pieces of chicken on the plate, "but it isn't what I ordered."

"It's better," he said and went away.